Nights like these

It's a night like this one that makes me wish I liked the taste of alcohol, or at least had a vice with mind/reality altering effects.

Something, anything to ward off the inevitable moments of self-reflection and self-inspection that lead to the writing of inane drivel that makes me cringe when I read it weeks, months, years later.

Ah, but those readings and cringings are far off in the future, and the emptiness is here now. Do I fill it with the usual putzing and fluff crap, or to do stop to listen to what the world is telling me?